The Magicians and Mrs. Quent (10 page)

The man cast a glance over his shoulder, and a jolt of surprise coursed through Rafferdy. A moment later the other vanished into the dimness of a side lane. Surprise gave way to curiosity, and Rafferdy found himself wondering what sort of place a man such as Mr. Bennick might frequent.

A compulsion to discover what Mr. Bennick was doing seized Rafferdy. Why he wanted to know he couldn’t say, except that it seemed a diverting entertainment, and of all the people he had ever met at Lady Marsdel’s, Mr. Bennick was the only one he had found intriguing.

Mr. Bennick had vanished from sight. The lane was too narrow for the cabriolet to follow, but Rafferdy knew that it led toward Coronet Street, and so he directed the driver to take him around the block.

Sure enough, as the cabriolet turned the corner onto Coronet Street, Rafferdy glimpsed a tall form in black. However, he had no sooner caught sight of Mr. Bennick than the other man crossed the busy thoroughfare and, with another look over his shoulder, started down a stair. Rafferdy was not certain where the stair led, so he asked the driver, who said if he remembered right it let out on the edge of Greenly Circle.

That was ill news. Greenly Circle was in a part of the Old City where several streets came together. From there Mr. Bennick might proceed almost anywhere. Finding himself well amused by the thrill of the chase, he ordered the driver to proceed to Greenly Circle by the most direct route.

This proved a difficult feat, for the New Quarter was situated upon a heights, and the driver was forced to descend to the Old City, then navigate a labyrinth of twisting ways before at last proceeding along King’s Street and down into Greenly Circle.

At once noise and odor overwhelmed Rafferdy. The booths of flower sellers and butchers and fishmongers crowded against one another in the shadow of the Citadel as tradesmen, servants, goodwives, and boys hawking broadsheets jostled between. On the steps of a fountain, a pair of mummers juggled torches, sometimes pausing to lay the flaming ends against their tongues while the crowd gasped as if the two were Siltheri illusionists rather than common street players, their rough faces smeared with greasepaint, their callused hands blackened beyond feeling.

Rafferdy had the driver make a circuit three times, and each time it took ten minutes for the vehicle to maneuver through the crowd. At last Rafferdy was forced to admit defeat at his little game; he had seen no sign of Mr. Bennick. With both his curiosity and craving for chocolate gone, he instructed the driver to turn toward home.

This was easier said than done, as a cart carrying apples had turned over and spilled its contents, and the result was a crowd of children, women, men, and horses all vying for the fruit. After much cracking of his whip, the driver was able to guide the cabriolet into a side street where it only just fit.

In contrast to the raucous circle, the lane was all but deserted. Only a murky light filtered down between buildings that leaned overhead. As the carriage started down the lane, a door opened ahead, and a man stepped out.

He was tall and wore black.

Before Rafferdy could even think to call out, the man pulled his hat low, then started up a stair between two buildings and was lost to sight. Once again he had gone a way where a carriage could not pass. Nor would there be any tracking him in the maze of the Old City. Rafferdy had found him only to lose him for good; there was no way to know where he had been going.

Except Rafferdy
did
know. For this had to be the place that Mr. Bennick had come. Why else had he gone into that building? A sign hung over the door. Rafferdy couldn’t read it in the dim light, but there was a picture painted on it in faded silver: a single eye that stared through the gloom. Directing the driver to wait, he left the cabriolet and approached the door. It looked to be some sort of shop, though what manner of goods it sold he couldn’t say; the objects beyond the grimy window were impossible to make out. Having come this far, he opened the door and entered.

At once he reconsidered this action. A musty odor perfused the air, calling to mind a library gone to mold. Indeed, the shelves all around were crammed with books, and more books were stacked on tables and heaped on the floor. Few looked to have been printed in Rafferdy’s lifetime, given their cracked leather covers and the tarnished gilt on their spines. Other objects were scattered among the books: polished stones, brass candlestick holders, copper braziers, glass vials, and jars in which various objects floated—shapes unfathomable in the dirty light that seeped through the windows.

In all, the shop was in such a disheveled state that Rafferdy wondered why anyone would set foot in it, let alone a gentleman like Mr. Bennick. Hoping to learn something of his quarry, Rafferdy picked up a book.

“That one is not for beginners, you know. Do not blame me when you lose a finger. Or an entire hand, more the likely. The fellow I acquired it from had one made of silver. It was rather handsome, I grant you, but somewhat less useful than the appendage it replaced.”

Rafferdy dropped the book. He turned toward the sound of the voice and saw a little man waddle from behind a counter piled so high with flotsam and jetsam it had rendered him invisible.

“You’ve come for a ring, I suppose,” the man said. His voice had a wet, croaking quality to it, as if his throat was perpetually in need of clearing. “Well, the term has begun, so I haven’t as many as I did last month. Every young gentleman seems to want one these days. It’s the fashion, or so I’ve been told. The fashion! As if power were a fancy coat like the one you’re wearing—a thing you might don for a party and take off again when you were done. But I suppose you’re no different, so come here, and we’ll see what I have that fits. And do not think it will be cheap.”

Rafferdy hesitated, then edged his way between the various tables to the counter, where the little man had opened a drawer. He was roundish, with pale skin, bulbous eyes, and limp hair combed tight against his skull. In all, he made Rafferdy think of some preternaturally large toad.

“Actually,” Rafferdy said, “I was wondering if I might ask you a question about…about someone.”

“These aren’t easy to come by, you know,” the shopkeeper said, rummaging through the drawer, which contained a collection of ornate rings. “They appear on the market only rarely, and there are precious few left who can make them.” He picked one up—a thick silver ring with a lurid green gem—peered at it for a moment, then gave Rafferdy a speculative look. “So which House are you?”

“Pardon me?” Rafferdy said.

The man scowled behind dusty spectacles. “You’ll not get far in your research if you’re really that dull. Which of the seven Old Houses are you a scion of?”

At last, things became clear to Rafferdy.

“I’m quite sure I’m not a scion of any of them,” he said with a laugh. “Magick is far from an affectation of mine. I am comfortable in my certainty that I cannot claim descent from any of the Old Houses.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. A gentleman has a better chance than anyone of being able to trace a line back to one of the seven. Of course, not every son who gets his father’s name gets his father’s blood. And there are chimney sweeps and lamplighters who are the spitting images of portraits hanging in grand manors. But you…” He peered at Rafferdy over the rims of his spectacles. “You have a likely look about you. Here, try this one.”

He handed Rafferdy the ring with the green gem. It was heavier than Rafferdy would have thought, and cold. He had no intention of purchasing such an ugly piece of jewelry, but it seemed that trying it on was the quickest way to be done with this exercise and get on to making his inquiry. The ring was overlarge, so he put it on his right middle finger.

Or tried to, that is. The ring had not reached the first knuckle of his finger when he felt a curious resistance. It was more than large enough to accommodate his finger, but even with great force Rafferdy could not manage to push it down.

“So not Baltharel, then,” the little man said with a sniff. “Well, that’s no surprise. There are few left who are descended of
that
House, though it was once one of the greatest.” He took the ring back and handed Rafferdy another.

This one was of gold and bore a row of seven red stones, as well as elaborate designs and tiny symbols carved outside and inside the band. It was thick and heavy like the other ring, and even gaudier. This time Rafferdy attempted to place it on the fourth finger of his right hand. Just as before, he could not get the ring past the first knuckle no matter how hard he pushed, even though it was more than large enough.

The shopkeeper clucked his tongue. “There are some who might be disappointed not to be able to wear
that
ring. It bears the crest of Myrrgon. Of all the Old Houses, none has given Altania more of its greatest magicians, and these days no ring I have would win you more praise and admiring looks than this one. But there’s no use fretting about it. This one’s not for you.” He snatched the ring back.

Rafferdy hardly knew what to think of all this, except to wonder if maybe he had just been insulted. The little man dug through the drawer of rings, at times picking one up, studying it a moment, glancing at Rafferdy, then putting it back. “I doubt it would be Xandrus,” he would mutter as he sorted through the rings, or, “Oh, I should think not Vordigan!” Just when Rafferdy was ready to put a stop to this, the little man plucked a ring from the corner of the drawer and held it toward Rafferdy.

“Try this one.”

The ring was rather plain compared to the others; the silver band bore only a single stone, bluish in color, as well as a line of thinly etched runes around the circumference. Rafferdy was growing rather perturbed by then, so he fairly snatched the ring from the shopkeeper and jammed it onto his right hand.

The ring slid on smoothly and easily, fitting snugly but not too tightly around the base of his fourth finger. Rafferdy stared at it.

“Well, that’s rare enough,” the shopkeeper said, and clapped pudgy hands. “I must say, I am rather surprised. I almost always pick the correct House on the first or second try, and I really wouldn’t have thought it would be
this
. But Gauldren it is; there can be no doubt of it. I suppose you should consider yourself fortunate. Many would give much to have a claim to
that
name—Gauldren the Great, who quelled the wrath of the Wyrdwood and made all of Altania safe for the establishment of civilization. Without doubt it is the most revered and respected of the seven Old Houses. But the most powerful?” He shook his head and let out a gurgling laugh. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

Rafferdy had no idea how to respond. Had the man just played some trick on him? He raised his hand and looked at the ring; the cloudy blue gem had a faint sheen to it despite the dim light of the shop.

“What is your name?” the little man asked.

“Rafferdy,” he said, studying the ring. “Dashton Rafferdy.”

The shopkeeper opened a massive book on the counter and flipped through its pages. “Would that be the north country Rafferdys or the Rafferdys of County Engeldon?”

“Engeldon.” He gave the shopkeeper a look. “And you are…?”

“I am Adabrayus Mundy, purveyor of magickal books and arcane objects.” The squat little man bowed.

“Well, Mr. Mundy, here is your ring back,” he said, taking off the silver ring and setting it on the counter.

“But do you not wish to purchase it, Mr. Rafferdy? I am certain we can agree upon a…fair price.”

“The price does not matter, as I would not wear such a hideous thing were it given away free,” Rafferdy said. Besides, he was increasingly certain the shopkeeper had indeed played a ruse upon him, one intended to dupe him into thinking the ring was special and buying it. “But as I have indulged you in trying it on, I hope you will return the favor by answering a question. The man who was in here before me—do you know him?”

“Mr. Bennick? Yes, I know him.” He gave Rafferdy a sly look. “And do you know him as well?”

“I have made his acquaintance,” Rafferdy said, though this was not entirely true. “Tell me, does Mr. Bennick…Is he something of a magician, then?”

“Well, he is a scion of House Vordigan.” Mr. Mundy licked his fingertips and flipped through the book. “Throughout the ages it was always the least of the Houses—until recent years, that is, when it gave Altania its last great magician. You have no doubt heard of Slade Vordigan.”

“Yes, I heard the tale, like every child,” Rafferdy said with growing annoyance. “How Slade Vordigan stood on a hill at Selburn Howe, waved his hands, and mumbled some nonsense, which served to drive the Old Usurper back to the sea, no doubt by confounding him with absurdity, thus winning the day for king and country.”

“A tale, you call it,” Mr. Mundy said. “But is it not King Rothard who sits upon the throne rather than Huntley Morden? Here we are, the Vordigan crest.” He tapped a page that bore an engraving of a serpent devouring its own tail. “Mr. Bennick is Slade Vordigan’s grandson. In his youth he was a very promising magician. He is no lord in name, but few lords can best him. Or could, at least. He does not practice these days.”

“Really? And if he does not do magick, why was he here in your shop?”

Mr. Mundy closed the book with a
boom.
“My customers expect and receive complete discretion, Mr. Rafferdy.”

Rafferdy stepped back from the cloud of dust conjured by the shutting of the book. He had learned all he could—and had endured more than he could tolerate—from this toadlike little man. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mundy,” he said, and made his way to the door.

“Do come back when you change your mind about the ring!” the shopkeeper called after him.

“Thank you, but I’m quite sure I won’t,” Rafferdy said, and closed the door behind him.

Rafferdy made his way down the dank lane back to the carriage, absently rubbing his right hand as he went. He was suddenly weary and instructed his driver to take him back to Warwent Square.

Rafferdy leaned back in the seat. So Mr. Bennick fancied himself some sort of magician—or had at one time, at any rate. It could not be surprising, given his comments that night at Lady Marsdel’s. All the same, Rafferdy found himself disappointed. He had not thought a man of such keen mind would be seduced by such a silly fashion. Perhaps Mr. Bennick was neither so intelligent nor so intriguing as he had thought.